You Have To Taste The Sour Urine

She's...just A Girl, You Know. Like Most Girls: Something And Nothing.

The Moon Had Risen Behind Him, The Color Of A Shark's Underbelly. It Lit The Ruined Walls, And The Skin Of His Arms And Hands, With Its Sickly Light, Making Him Long For A Mirror In Which To Study His Face. Surely He'd Be Able To See The Bones Beneath The Meat; The Skull Gleaming The Way His Teeth Gleamed When He Smiled. After All, Wasn't That What A Smile Said? Hello, World, This Is The Way I'll Look When The Wet Parts Are Rotted.

To Dream In Isolation Can Be Properly Splendid To Be Sure; But To Dream In Company Seems To Me Infinitely Preferable.

I Have The Normal Complement Of Anxieties, Neuroses, Psychoses And Whatever Else - But I'm Absolutely Nothing Special.

To Call You Excrement Would Be An Insult To The Product Of My Bowels.